


Doing the Right Thing Has Never Been So Hard

by kashinoha



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy is not a dick, Clarke is a little impressed, Humor, Sex Pollen, and confused, bellarke undertones, but is having issues with his, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While out collecting herbs, Clarke and Bellamy discover that the plant they need is also an aphrodisiac. Bellamy is affected, Clarke isn’t. Takes place after "I Am Become Death."</p>
<p>all characters © Jason Rothenberg, Kass Morgan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing the Right Thing Has Never Been So Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, I meant to do something deep and thoughtful for my first 100 fic, and it turns out to be about sex pollen. Anyway, this is my take on the sex pollen trope, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm a gen writer and this kind of thing is not really in my comfort zone of writing, but I ended up having fun with it. Hope you enjoy!

**Doing the Right Thing Has Never Been So Hard**

 

Impressive as Lincoln’s art skills are, Clarke is not quite ready to bet their lives on them. She holds up a sketch of a flowery plant with ribbed petals. “Are you sure this is it?”

“I’m sure,” Bellamy says, sounding annoyed. He’s certainly entitled to, giving this is the third time Clarke has asked him. He uproots the plant and twirls the stem between his index finger and thumb.

“If we’re wrong, half of us will be dead by tomorrow,” Clarke reminds him. “Painfully.” The hemorrhagic fever has left a good portion of them weak or anemic, and according to Lincoln’s Grounder Handbook there is a special herb-flower hybrid that aids in treating blood loss...unless confused with its highly toxic look-alike.

Clarke nods to the stem in Bellamy’s hand. “Double-check. Octavia said it’s pungent.”

Bellamy tentatively sniffs the flower. “Woah,” he exclaims, pulling his head away with a grimace. He sneezes harshly towards the ground. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says. “Stinks.” He turns from her to sneeze again and wipes his nose on his sleeve. With a glint of wry humor in his slightly watering eyes, he offers the plant to her.

Clarke pulls a face. “No thanks,” she says. She rises from her crouch and flexes her legs, pausing only when she sees Bellamy staring off into space with an odd look on his face. She wonders if he is going to sneeze again. “What is it?”

His eyes fall back into focus and he shakes his head. With a quick motion he pockets the herbs. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

…

There are times, like the sun poking out through the clouds, when Clarke can actually _see_ Bellamy Blake. Not the King of the grounded Skypeople or the Voice of authority, but a regular twenty-three year old guy trying to hold everyone together. Not that Bellamy is regular, by any means, but the curtain of barked orders and sacrificial decisions is only so thick, and Clarke quite likes those times when they thin out. Not only are they rare but they remind her that people are not solid colors, but kaleidoscopes of shades and textures.

Then there are other times when she has absolutely no idea what he is thinking. Like now. She doesn’t like how tacit he’s become since they turned around, nor does she approve of the slight flush staining his cheeks. Worries of a relapse run through her head and she calls out to him.

“Bellamy. Are you okay?”

He stops and raises an eyebrow her way. “Fine,” he says shortly, and starts walking again. Clark catches up to him and grabs his arm. Frowning, she puts the back of her hand to his forehead. For a moment Bellamy freezes, breath halting in his throat.

“Relax, princess,” he mutters, pulling away. “I’m not sick.”

Clarke tilts her head. “Really?” she asks. “Because you’re kind of warm. If you have something I’m not risking you giving it to everybody else back at camp. Murphy was enough.”

Bellamy draws his lips together in a tight line and glares at her. “I’m _fine,”_ he says. “Why don’t you worry about yourself for a change?” He slings his rifle over his shoulder and shifts, looking...uncomfortable, or as uncomfortable as it is possible for Bellamy Blake to look. That, combined with the old “princess” jibe, which sometime along the way had turned into “Clarke,” takes her by surprise. The sudden remission sends klaxons blaring in Clarke’s head.

And Bellamy, well, he’s figured out exactly what is going on. It’s sending a pulsing hum of embarrassment, horror, and arousal through his veins and he decides that the next time he sees that Grounder they are certainly going to have _words._ Minute beads of sweat form at his temple and slowly wend down his face. Darting out a tongue to lick them away from his mouth, Bellamy runs a hand through his hair and deems this very, very bad.

Privacy at the camp is minimal at best, unless you count the drop ship (and for all that has happened there, it’s hardly a turn-on if you’re looking for sexy times). What it amounts to is flimsy tent fabric, but right now Bellamy would kill for it because they are almost three miles out and he hasn’t been this turned on since that time on the Ark when he was sixteen and spotted the cleaning lady of Section D changing out of her fluorescent panties. Arousal is a funny thing.

And it’s not even one person in particular. Clarke just happens to be _there,_ beside him, and he finds himself for the first time wanting to sift his fingers through her blonde, mud-caked hair. His mind knows it is the plant, the goddamned plant, but his body is saying something else entirely and Bellamy just wants to crawl into a hole until the feeling passes.

Just as he manages to get his heart rate under control Clarke pokes his arm and he stiffens, as if tazed.

Clarke squints at him. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. When he does not respond she plants her feet firmly in the soil and folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not moving until you answer, Bellamy.”

Bellamy stops, finally, and turns to face her. His rifle is draped over his frontside to hopefully hide the massive erection he has, and it takes everything he has to keep his distance. With a rough shake, he wrestles the bouquet of newly picked herbs from his pocket and brandishes it in front of him like a weapon.

“Make sure people don’t inhale this when they use it,” he says lowly. “It has side effects.”

Clarke, looking alarmed, reaches for a pouch of Grounder antidotes that Octavia has helped her put together. “Poison?”

At this point Bellamy would have been thankful for a Grounder attack. Acid fog. Anything. Well, maybe not acid fog, since that would require taking shelter in a small, enclosed space for several hours. Maybe an oversized Garter snake with three heads would slither out of the underbrush, but the calm, still air tells him it isn’t likely. Bellamy curses the silence.

“It’s an aphrodisiac,” he spits out.

“Oh.” Clarke’s hand falls away from the pouch. Then what he said really sinks in, and her eyes widen. _“Oh.”_ She doesn’t know whether to find this funny or worrying, but for the first time in a long time funny wins out because there is no immediate danger and it’s _Bellamy._

Her eyes narrow and she gestures to the lush woods around them. “Do you...need some private time?”

“Shut up, Clarke,” Bellamy snaps. “I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, once you’re back at camp you can have your pick of women, but we won’t get there until sundown,” Clarke says, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. He’s clearly embarrassed and touchy to show for it, and some part of her is enjoying this a little more than she should be.

For Bellamy, that smile is like a spark of Flintstone against a rock. His breath is suddenly too short and for the love of the Chancellor, he can hear every snap of twig, see every vein in every leaf. Everything’s too bright. “Really, princess?” He manages. _“Now_ you get a sense of humor?”

Clarke only shrugs and continues down the path. They have powder markers on the trees that head north. Bellamy finds himself ogling Clarke’s ass in front of him, hoping that by sheer willpower his blood will also head back north, where it belongs.

…

Two hours later things have not gotten any better. Bellamy is panting, flushed, and if Clarke notices the occasional pull at the crotch of his jeans she only shoots him an amused look or two. Bellamy should not be surprised. He sometimes forgets that they each came here with their own personalities, all of which have been shoved roughly in the back-burner by ravenous survival instinct. He remembers Clarke at the Unity Day party, campfire shadows flickering over her cheeks and the smells of charcoal and cordite buried in her clothes. No disease, arson, or responsibility then. Just a girl, a person.

And if that person who peeks through during times of rest is a little sassy, well, Bellamy could stand to see more of that (just not right now).

This past hour he’s made a mental list of every turn-off imaginable: Grounders blistered with burns. Squeezing pus from wounds. Murphy puking blood all over the drop ship. None of it really helps.

Clarke stops at a rock to stretch and unloops a canteen from around her shoulder. “Here,” she says, tossing him the pack. “It’s cold. Should help.”

Wordlessly, Bellamy takes a swallow and pours a good portion of the water over his hair. He shakes his head, like a dog, and sighs with his hands on his knees, watching rivulets of water mixed with sweat spatter the dirt.

Clarke shoots him a glance as she undoes her hair from its bun (so golden, it’s epigamic). “Is it really that uncomfortable?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, brushing out the creases in her hair. Bellamy tries not to look.

“I inhaled that stuff directly. What do you think?” He starts to say something more but cuts himself off with a snort, looking annoyed. He also looks pained, and Clarke’s expression softens.

“Would it help if I…” her fingers twitch at her side, as if to reach towards him.

Bellamy smooths his hair back and meets her gaze for the first time in several hours. “Yes,” he admits.

Weathered boots crunch along the leaves as Clarke steps closer. Bellamy can smell her sweat, mixed with the freshness of the river, and his groin spasms. With a muddy, yet impossibly elegant hand, Clarke cups the side of his hot face. “I could try,” she says, her mouth set but her eyes vulnerable. “If we get attacked on our way back to camp I’m going to need you all there. I could try, if...if it would help.”

Bellamy lets his eyes fall shut and gently removes Clarke’s hand from his face. “Thank you, but no,” he says. Clarke pulls away with a mixture of confusion and god knows what else on her face. He doesn’t even want to know.

“I’d rather wait it out.”

Clarke perches herself on a nearby tree stump and crosses her arms. “Between your harems and my medical expertise I’d say we’ve seen most of our people naked, so I don’t see what the big deal is,” she tells him.

Bellamy blinks, distracted. “Excuse me? Harems?”

Clark shrugs. “You’ve slept with half the girls at this camp.”

Bellamy shakes his head and a crease forms between his eyes. “What? No, not half. Six.” Then he remembers Raven. “Seven.”

“Seven, then.” Clarke uncrosses her arms, leans forward, and Bellamy swears her eyes have some sort of electric undercurrent behind them. It’s bizarre.

“What’s one more?”

He cannot tell if she is being sarcastic or openly goading him. Might be both. Or, maybe it’s neither. He’s suddenly painfully aware of the burgeoning tightness in his jeans.

“Two months ago you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole,” Bellamy says, raising an eyebrow. “And now you want to sleep with me.” It is not quite a question.

“I don’t _want_ to,” Clarke replies. “I just thought it might help your cond—”

“Then _no.”_

She says nothing for a moment, and this time Bellamy waits for her to break the quiet. After a minute, she nods to a clearing of trees to her left. “There’s a little alcove about ten yards away,” she informs him. “That’s about as much privacy as you’re going to get, so go do what you need to do.”

“And leave you alone here?” Bellamy asks skeptically. But his groin is throbbing the William Tell Overture and oh, those trees are starting to look _extremely_ friendly.

Clarke stands. “Fine, I’ll wait outside. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Go.” _And isn’t_ that _a story for another time,_ Bellamy thinks, returning her canteen and stalking off.

Once they arrive Clarke busies herself drawing figures in the moist soil with a branch while she waits. The trees provide good coverage, but as she draws she can hear the steady slaps of skin on skin and Bellamy’s short, harsh exhales. She tries to concentrate on drawing a rune she saw inked on a Grounder’s head, but is startled when Bellamy gives a quiet, low moan. Her stick snaps in two, which startles him in turn.

“Clarke?”

“I’m here,” she answers. After finding no more sticks to draw with, she sits in the grass, eyes rolled upwards to the late afternoon sun. “Bellamy,” she begins, and hears a grunt in response. Clarke knows she will hate herself for asking later, but a part of her needs to know.

“Why did you say no before? Because honestly? If it’s about opening up we’ve already seen each other at our worst.” _And at our best,_ she adds silently.

She doesn’t expect him to answer, and is surprised when he grits out, “This is different.”

“Because I’m ‘not like the other girls,’ right?” Clarke says, after a moment. She scowls. “That’s right; I’m a _princess.”_

“Wrong,” Bellamy pants. Clarke can hear his strokes quicken. She wonders what he’s thinking about.

“It’s because you...matter…”

Clarke doesn’t know how to respond. Bellamy suddenly lets out a sigh, and she knows he is finished. She stands up, brushing crumbles of earth from her pants. “Better now?”

Bellamy emerges from the bushes a moment later looking a little red but considerably more relaxed. “Let’s get going,” he says, breezing past her.

“Bellamy—”

He turns and locks eyes with her, suddenly all black-fire intensity and gravestone grimness. “We will never talk about this,” he says darkly, using what Clarke has come to recognize as his King’s voice. But a King, without his army, is just a man.

Besides, Clarke thinks to herself, Bellamy’s pride is hardly at stake anymore. Or at least, she hadn’t thought so. She tosses a tress of hair over her shoulder. “About what?” she asks. “We didn’t do anything.”

Bellamy visibly softens. “Right,” he says.

They make their way back to the path and head home, this time side by side, neither one of them speaking for a stretch of time. Their shadows crawl lazily behind them, reaching towards the inevitable dusk to come.

“But if we had,” Clarke says at one point, “you know, done something, I don’t think anyone would believe it.”

Bellamy turns to look sideways at her. “Life on the ground changes people,” he replies. The glow of the sinking sun coaxes the red highlights out in his hair. “Beliefs, morals, everything flows and adapts. Like water.”

It’s an oddly poetic remark coming from Bellamy, who is always so concrete. Then again, his counter on Oppenheimer the other day reminds Clarke that underneath the guns and muck and blood and everyday struggle for survival hides an intelligent, eloquent person who has probably read up on just as much history as she has, if not more.

“I suppose you’re right,” she agrees, smiling. She sees smoke not too far in the offing and heaves her backpack more soundly over one shoulder. “Now let’s get these flowers to the others and hope they don’t decide to use them as incense.”

Bellamy snorts, and Clarke thinks it is the closest thing she’s heard him to laughing.

 

_End._


End file.
